MeatCanyon

She was one of the earliest, a blue boy, though she had never been a boy at all.

Four months, four months of silent grief, manifesting finally to a lantern-lit, strained march through the fog.

The crowd moved as a single, muttering mass, boots scuffing the damp earth, light swinging shadows across sour, tense faces.

I wished to walk at the rear, just another soul swept up in a vengeful resolve,

looking only at gnarled fists instead of red-rimmed eyes, but Rafe insisted that I walked with him at the front.

His voice let in low, grim bursts, knuckles wide around the handle of a meat cleaver.

In my place, somewhere behind, a boy began to quietly sob to themselves as the lighthouse, a pale specter at the edge of the world, emerged.

Rafe took an unwavering step towards the silent, dead, monolithic tower.

My stomach twisted at every tail and a single kindness clashed with the contagious anger and dread driving us forward.

We would not be halted.

Only the echoes of our siege would spill across the bay, and distant, mournful cries of gulls overhead.

Wraith pounded his fist on the floor.

Open up!

We know you're in there!

His minions became wired, twitching with driftwood clubs, knives, and whatever other instruments they could use to inflict harm, a restless collective of twenty strong, brave bodies.

Is that what we were there to do?

Hurt him?

I made myself scarce, ushering away from our leader to a withered bed of wildflowers.

As Rafe began to attack the door, hacking into its thick wooden seams with utmost ferocity.

It was fruitless, his efforts becoming deranged and desperate, until a titan of a man stepped forth, armed with a hammer.